Godscalc, called to her bedside, had let her tell him everything she wished she had said. He said nothing against it. Instead, at the end, he had taken a considerable breath and proceeded to give her a succinct account of what, as he understood it, had happened to Nicholas on Cyprus. Long before he finished, she was lying quite still. She said crossly, ‘But Lopez would say anything.’
The priest said, ‘Perhaps. But this time, it must be said, there are quite a few witnesses who could bear him out, not least the Venetians. In any event, I don’t think Nicholas has the destruction of the Charetty company in the forefront of his mind after that, and indeed you shouldn’t complain. If he makes a profit at all, you will certainly benefit. As for the changes: they’re reasonable. They have to be made. Think them through. Let him know you endorse them. You may not like him, but we all depend on him.’
He hoped he had struck the right note but couldn’t be sure. Later, Margot had come down and said, ‘She’s agreed. It was just a little too sudden, losing Julius and Nicholas both. Did you know Nicholas once sent her a farmuk?’
‘A what?’ Godscalc said, and then remembered. A small Turkish toy. He said, ‘She must have been very young.’
‘Yes,’ Margot said. ‘She asked me how dangerous this voyage would be. She is afraid.’
‘There is no need for either of you to be afraid,’ Godscalc had said. ‘Nicholas means to come back, and bring us all with him.’ It was what he believed.
Once at sea, it was usually Gregorio who, as purser and notary, accompanied Nicholas on his business ashore where the sales, he noted, were made in cash, whereas the purchases were not. On the island of Mallorca, he saw for the first time sacks and boxes brought directly from Africa: Barbary wool and Bougie leather and gum arabic. He went with Nicholas and Triadano of Ragusa to look at a collection of charts and brought back on board a Jew Nicholas seemed to have heard of, who stayed a long time and talked Hebrew with Loppe. They met a man who had traded with the Charetty at Bruges, and Gregorio nearly got drunk with him.
On the main Spanish coast at Valencia, everyone knew of the Strozzi and quite a few had heard what Nicholas and his army had done for their King’s nephew Ferrante in Italy. They were given some extremely sporting concessions. After trading, Nicholas found his way innocently to a large, well-run sugar-mill, originally founded by Germans. Now, the manager confided, it was owned by a firm called Vatachino. Their man Martin sometimes called, or a younger lord, David. Neither was in the city at present.
Father Godscalc, attending Mass with his ears open, reported hearty Genoese complaints about Portuguese interference in North Africa. In the days of King John, Portuguese troops had seized the city of Ceuta, opposite the Pillars of Hercules, and bought themselves and their garrison fifty years of permanent trouble, for no visible profit. ‘They say,’ Godscalc said, ‘that the Arabs are trying to retake the town yet again, and a Portuguese fleet has sailed to help with reinforcements from Flanders.’
‘So someone told me,’ Nicholas had said.
‘Did they?’ said Godscalc. And receiving no response, had added tartly, ‘We shall learn more further south, I suppose.’
Further south, the port of Málaga, which belonged to the Kingdom of Granada, had more Genoese in it than Moorish caftans and turbans, and the sight of the loggias, the banks and the benches full of doublets and hats was almost as amazing as the view of the markets and warehouses heaped with ripe Moorish fruit and bright silk, as well as Portuguese sugar and dyestuffs. Nicholas moved from office to office, examining goods, discussing deals, and picking up gossip in both Italian and Arabic.
Here, whatever he got had to be paid for, including the gossip. From Trebizond to Famagusta, the Genoese had little to thank Nicholas for; and the Vatachino had interests everywhere. On shore, six seamen from the Ciaretti accompanied Nicholas and Gregorio wherever they went.
Wherever they went, Gregorio had also come to realise, Nicholas asked the same two questions, one concerning a man, and the other concerning a ship. Mallorca and Valencia had not supplied the answers.
Málaga gave the answer to a different question. Nicholas, returning on board with the scent of Africa clinging still to his clothes, joined Gregorio and Godscalc and Loppe in the great cabin, sat, and spoke. ‘Father Godscalc? Remember the rumour about Ceuta being protected by Flanders? Would you like to hear the truth of it?’ He looked incandescent.
‘If it wouldn’t shock me,’ said Godscalc.
‘What in God’s name would ever shock you? Gregorio: remember that day in Venice when Duke Philip of Burgundy sent to say he couldn’t join the crusade until next year?’
‘And the groat improved,’ said Gregorio decorously.
‘Well, listen. He’s dying. He thinks he’s dying. He hasn’t fulfilled his knightly vow. So, dear brethren, he has decided to send a fleet anyway, with two or three thousand men under two of his sons.’
‘Illegitimate sons?’ said Gregorio dryly.
‘Illegitimate half-brothers,’ said Nicholas. ‘Antony and Baudouin, in fact. And since they were coming by sea, they called in at Portugal where the King is a nephew of the Duchess of Burgundy, and therefore by marriage their half – half – half …’
‘Never mind,’ said Gregorio. ‘What happened?’
‘The King asked them a favour, since they were passing. On their way to the big crusade at Ancona, to drop into his little crusade on the Barbary coast, and help to free a besieged Portuguese garrison. So, after picking up a few extra ships –’
‘Extra ships?’ the priest said quickly.
‘– one of these being French, it seems that the Burgundians have landed at Ceuta, accompanied among others by eighty-two volunteers from the city of Ghent dressed in black with silver Gs on their backs, which I hope the Barbary pirates can read. Reports say they look like staying for ever, but the Moors don’t seem to mind, and it’s probably cheaper than going to Ancona, and nicely positioned if either the Pope or Duke Philip expires.’
‘Nicholas,’ Godscalc said automatically. ‘A French ship?’ he added.
Nicholas smiled. ‘A roundship called the Ribérac,’ he said. ‘Found at Lagos, and commandeered for a year’s service from its owner, who had just brought a cargo from Cyprus. The owner being –’
‘Jordan de Ribérac!’ Loppe exclaimed. ‘You’ve discovered the Doria? He restored her original name? There’s no doubt it’s the roundship he took from you?’
‘No,’ Nicholas said.
‘But she’s now anchored off Ceuta?’
‘Awkward,’ Nicholas said. ‘But not without possibilities. The honourable vicomte himself has been called back to France.’
‘So who is with the ship?’ said Loppe softly. ‘Crackbene? He was employed to bring her from Cyprus; he might stay to sail her for Portugal?’
No one spoke. At every port, Nicholas had asked about a ship, and a man. Now the ship had been found. Godscalc said, ‘I have no knowledge at all of the roundship; but a sailing-master called Michael Crackbene has been for some weeks in prison for debt at Sanlúcar de Barrameda. Debt, and drink, and a killing. He is unlikely to get out.’
‘I wondered if you knew,’ Nicholas said.
‘And if I hadn’t?’ the priest said. ‘It is our next port of call. Or was to have been.’
‘It still is,’ Nicholas said. ‘Unless you want to buy all the cargo yourself.’
At Zibelterra, the strait that separated Spain from Barbary was so narrow that Gregorio, sailing past, thought that but for the mist he might have glimpsed the masts of the Portuguese fleet below Ceuta, and the high sides of the Doria among them.
The Doria, or the Ribérac, for which Nicholas had just forfeited twenty-five thousand ducats, or its equivalent. Small wonder he meant to have the ship back. Small wonder he was hunting Mick Crackbene, who had left his employment without notice on Cyprus, and, taking contract with Jordan de Ribérac, had sailed the old man and his grandson and the boat out of everyone’s reach. Or so he had
thought.
Sanlúcar de Barrameda, the port of Seville, lay in the colder, unfriendly ocean west of Cádiz, and close to the point where the Spanish frontier met that of Portugal and trading galleys bound for London or Flanders would prepare for the long journey north, past Biscay and the wine ports of Gascony. From here, galleys only went north, or turned back eastwards.
Because the journey upriver to Seville was slow, the Ciaretti lay in Sanlúcar to unload and load, denying her passengers a glimpse of the effete and gorgeous kingdom of Castile, whose court preferred Saracen customs. Sanlúcar, like all seaports, was full of taverns and warehouses and whores, as well as the grander houses and persons of the officials and merchants. Its jetties were covered with fish scales.
This time, Father Godscalc insisted on landing with Nicholas and Gregorio. They went on shore together, escorted as always, but found a strange absence of the usual officials, and the doors on which they knocked remained shut against them, as well as the afternoon heat. Further into the town, the narrow streets were filled with people who should have been working, and a sprinkling of well-dressed men and women in silks, most of them riding. There was an air of festivity.
‘It isn’t a Saint’s Day,’ said Gregorio, returning to report. ‘It’s the Genoese consul’s daughter’s wedding, and they’re treating the town: plenty to drink and everyone invited, but no business today.’ He looked about him. ‘Where’s Nicholas?’
Father Godscalc looked about too, and then clapped a hand to his face. Behind it, Gregorio felt, was a large, stifled curse. Eventually he removed it and said, ‘Where he meant to be, I should guess. At the prison. Without a bodyguard. I swore I wouldn’t let him do this.’
‘You couldn’t help it,’ Gregorio said. ‘Not with these crowds. What do you want to do?’
‘Find the prison,’ the priest said. ‘I’ll take two of the men. Stay here with the others. If I don’t join you, come looking.’
But for his anxiety, Gregorio would have enjoyed standing where he was, at the edge of the marketplace, with children clinging to his legs and their parents slapping him on the back, or offering him a gulp of wine from a flask, or a sugared pastry out of a napkin. His escort, though watchful, didn’t fuss. He carried no money. He wasn’t the primary target.
Girls tried to slip their arms in his, and burly men attempted to explain what was going to happen in a form of Spanish thicker than the kind he was used to in Bruges. He was going to witness mock fighting, it seemed; some on foot, some on horseback and some between animals of various kinds. Oxen were going to play some sort of part. Gregorio, who had missed all the exotica of Cyprus and Trebizond, wished that Nicholas were less of a handful, and hadn’t managed to ruin a really promising afternoon. By insisting on hounding Crackbene, Nicholas had put himself in jeopardy, and the rest of them to some trouble. He really deserved all he got.
At the same time, Godscalc had been away for ten minutes, and that was ten minutes too long. Grimly, Gregorio collected his men, asked the way to the prison and, followed by curious stares, set off towards it.
Halfway there, he caught sight of Godscalc pushing his way towards him. Beside him were the two men-at-arms and an unknown gentleman in a red velvet hat and a doublet with elaborate gold buttons. Godscalc said, ‘Ah, there you are. Let me introduce you. This officer is from the Genoese casa, and brings an invitation for you and me to watch the entertainment from the balcony of his house. The running of the bulls.’
‘The …?’ Gregorio said. ‘What about …?’
‘That,’ the priest said, ‘has all been taken care of. There is absolutely nothing to worry about. Do you have your rosary, now?’
‘No,’ said Gregorio blankly.
‘Ah, well,’ said the priest. ‘I have a good bit of credit, and I hope He remembers it.’ And, returning to his place by the Genoese, he resumed striding forward. Gregorio and the bodyguard followed.
The Genoese house had a gallery round two of its sides from which the marketplace was in full view, as well as the streets leading to it. The Genoese casa was full of men called Centurione, or Lomellini or Giustiniani or Spinola, all of whom had cousins working in Bruges who knew the Charetty company. Nobody mentioned the House of Niccolò, and Father Godscalc frowned whenever Gregorio opened his mouth. It meant either that Nicholas was safe, or that his situation, whatever it was, was past mending.
So, in a distracted fashion, the lawyer found himself following the entertainment below: the grand procession, the dances, the acrobats, the races, the mock battles between mounted teams in different colours, using light shields and spears. The crowds behind the barriers cheered, and the flags fluttered against the blue sky, and serving-girls brought in bread and olives and grapes and filled his cup with Andalusian wine. The shadows grew longer, and the air became milk-warm and pleasant. He began to laugh at two mummers on horseback.
He realised he had seen them before, on opposing sides in the battles, one in red and one in yellow with casques made of buckram and satin. Now they had feathers as well, and light lances of which they never let go, but which they used to threaten and prick at each other as they jumped in and out of the saddle, and knelt, and ran, and achieved fearsome misses and occasional spectacular hits.
The horses were jennets, trained for dancing round the young bulls to enable the picador to plant his garrocha. They had seen some of that already, but these two had not taken part. Now, you would say they were playing double roles: each the beast and the picador also. And the young bull in yellow was Nicholas.
As the idea entered his head, Gregorio realised it was preposterous: suggested by some similarity of height, a width of shoulder, a type of inventiveness. Then he saw the expression on the priest’s face beside him; and turned back to the arena ín horror. It was Nicholas.
Of the two, he had the better seat on the horse. Or that was not exactly true: what he possessed was a bodily control of his mount which he must have learned in the East; a trick from Persia, Turkey, Byzantium, where men played games on light horses like this. It left his arms free for whatever he chose. And what he chose was pure comedy at the expense of his opponent.
There could be no doubt, now, who his fellow mummer in scarlet must be. One couldn’t imagine how the prison governor could have been persuaded to let him out to be mocked at, or how he could have brought himself to agree. But the other man, there was no doubt, was Michael Crackbene.
They had been told, presumably, to entertain, and this they did. But Nicholas, wielding his spear, was also wielding his anger, and knew very well how to make a strike hurt. And Crackbene, though more at home on the sea than in the saddle, was none the less an athletic man, with the blood of Vikings in him, and determination, and anger. Vaulting, running, whirling his spear, he fended Nicholas off, and sometimes managed a strike, upon which Nicholas flung his arms open and bellowed. When hit, Crackbene also, clowning, lamented. The spectators cackled and cheered, while Gregorio saw the spots of blood on the yellow, and the spots of black on the red, and knew it wasn’t all mime. Then the thunder of hooves drowned the laughter.
A running of oxen. The burly man had tried to explain, in the bright afternoon when the sun was high and hot. Now it was low and yellow, and the arena was half in black shadow, and the drumming of hooves came from behind the Genoese casa and then from the paved street beside it, from which boys and men, running in comical terror, debouched screaming into the marketplace. After them poured a torrent of animals.
Oxen was the word they had used: an innocuous word to do with watermeadows and ploughs and slow, lethargic beasts which had no connection – no possible link – with a herd of gleaming, terrified, frothing young bulls being forced through the streets of Sanlúcar and finding themselves now in an open space, surrounded by crowds and occupied by two vulnerable men on two vulnerable horses.
It seemed to Gregorio that Nicholas shouted something to his opponent. Certainly, ramming his spear into its slot, he galloped across, and, seizing the other man
’s reins, attempted to race with him from the arena. He was halfway there when the beasts were upon them, muzzles dripping, horns ducking and goring. Crackbene’s horse staggered and fell. The herd crowded about it. Exclaiming, the crowds beyond the barriers parted.
Crackbene stood for a moment, bleeding and buffeted, and then, twisting about, slammed his hands on a bull’s neck and vaulted. He landed, thighs spread, on its rump, and reaching forward, seized a horn in each fist. The bull bucked and threw up its hooves. Nicholas, moving behind, pulled out his spear and, controlling his plunging, white-eyed horse, pierced the bull again and again on the rump. The bull, bellowing, forced its way to the fence and burst through. The jennet followed. Its sides scored and bleeding, the second horse reached the vacated barrier and jumped.
The herd was attempting to follow when, almost too late, a band of Sanlúcar worthies blocked their way, riding up with their whips and their lances. The stamping, dust-covered animals faltered, backed and began to seek another way out. Towards the sea, over the heads of the crowds, the stampeding bull and the jennet had merged into the distance. Gregorio, on his feet, found the priest on his feet also beside him. The Genoese in the red cap said, ‘They will both be killed,’ and crossed himself soberly.
Somewhere in the pronouncement was a thread of satisfaction. Gregorio realised that, whatever bargain had been struck, the Genoese had always hoped that both would be killed. He said, ‘If God is good, no.’
‘God is good,’ said the priest distinctly. Walking back to the barrier was the jennet, its gait stumbling and slow and blood on its muzzle. On its back was the mummer in yellow. The Genoese said, ‘Ah. We have, it seems, to mourn the death of our prisoner. A sprightly man, but short of temper in drink. It was to be expected, and there will be no recriminations. The entertainment was all.’
Scales of Gold: The Fourth Book of the House of Niccolo Page 12